A Very Johnlock Twelve Days
by Avath
Summary: One prompt Three ficlets... EXCEPT this time we're doing twelve prompts and just like the song, we're just going to keep adding them on until on the very last day we have 12 prompts to write into one ficlet each.
1. Fancy Holiday Party - Avath

John was dressed to the nines. He had his best shirt, his best trousers, his best shoes and even his best socks. He had washed behind his ears and he had washed his hair. He had even put gel in his hair. It stood up in spikes. To be honest, it looked a bit silly, but Sherlock had said to dress up because this party was one of special importance. Making a fuss of one's hair seemed appropriate.

He had been instructed to arrive precisely on time, lest the whole plan be ruined so at precisely four thirty in the afternoon the day after Christmas Day, John rang the doorbell. The door opened in appropriate the amount of time it took to make a person feel eagerly expected but not obsessively so.

"Ah, John! Lovely to see you. Do come in."

"Thank you," John said politely. He nodded and strode in. The hallway he stepped into was neat and tidy, as it always was. His coat was taken and his shoes put away so he didn't drag in the wet from outside. He was glad he had put on a smart pair of socks, not the kinds with holes in them.

With the ease that knowing a place well brought, he walked through the house and up the stairs. He knew exactly where Sherlock would be without being told. He wondered if other people had the same sort of connection between them. Did other people just _know_?

"Sherlock," he said as he pushed the door open. It was always good to give a warning when stepping into the presence of Sherlock. He could be quite wild.

"John! Good. You've arrived on time. Enter. The party will begin," Sherlock said.

"Thank you," John said, again politely. He walked in and stood awkwardly, his hands wringing, surveying the scene in front of him. There was indeed a party going on and John could tell a lot of effort had gone into making sure the food was right, the drinks were right and that the guests were important and interesting enough to warrant a longer period of attention being spent on them.

"Pleathe, thit down. Captain Penguin hath been dying to hear about your trip to Afghanithtan thinthe he heard of it. He thinkth you're remarkably brave for having gone, John. I don't dithagree," Sherlock said. He flung himself to seated in an empty spot in the circle of teddy bears, action figures and paper cutouts that he had meticulously arranged. "Thit down," Sherlock said, pointing at another such spot that he had left empty for John.

John sat down. "Well, Captain Penguin, it all started when I was asked by the Queen of the World to go. So I went. I got a gun and probably also new shoes because the ones I have now sometimes leak and I don't think the Queen would like me to have wet feet," he said.

"Juithe, John?" Sherlock offered, holding up a small carafe of orange liquid.

"Yes, please," John answered.

Sherlock poured the juice and handed John a slice of soft gingerbread to go with it.

"Yes, I did save the world," John said, nodding at Captain Penguin who had just asked him a question.

"Of courthe John thaved the world. John alwayth thaveth everything. Onthe he even thaved Mycroft'th thinnamon bunth and he didn't need to do that becauthe Mycroft ith fat," Sherlock said, giving poor Captain Penguin such a sharp look that he fell quiet and didn't dare ask John anymore questions about his trip in case they were accidentally rude. None of the other guests dared speak after that. They all knew Sherlock could be fierce and John's temper was triggered when he felt someone was being unfair to Sherlock.

The party was, however, a great success even though it turned out that John and Sherlock did all of the talking. The other guests fell in to the background, but they did it courteously. They'd been to Sherlock's parties before. They knew that Sherlock always wanted to talk to John and John always wanted to show off a bit for Sherlock to show that he was brave.

They were the kind of friends that people just _knew _to let be.


	2. Fancy Holiday Party - Megstagz

_Megstagz is doing one long story out of these prompts!_

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><p>It was a snowy and rather blustery day when John returned home to the flat after a trying day at work. He was exhausted, drained from a long shift with patients who underplayed major maladies and those who feared the worst about a common cold. All he wanted to do was come home, fix himself a strong cup of tea, and relax.<p>

What he was greeted with, however, was a frantic Sherlock who was pacing back and forth across the flat, biting his lip anxiously and muttering to himself under his breath.

"Sherlock?" John asked as he saw the agitated state of his friend.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed as he turned and saw him. "Good! You're home. Something terrible has happened."

John froze before he threw himself into action. "What is it? Is it Mrs. H? Has something happened to her?"

"What?" Sherlock asked in confusion. "No. No, far worse. This is something much, _much_ worse."

"What is it? Would you tell me already instead of making me think of worst case scenarios?" John was already planning on what to pick up (aside from his gun) before he and Sherlock took off to chase down whatever the trouble was.

Sherlock moved to the coffee table and picked up a small piece of paper that looked, to John, to be rather innocuous, but Sherlock was handling it as though he had never been more offended by anything in his life.

"Here," he said, handing the paper to John. "Read it."

Suspiciously, John took hold of the paper and saw that it was an invitation.

"Oh," he said, his body unwinding from the tension he had been thrown into. "That's it? It's just an invitation to a holiday party. A fancy one, judging by the venue. Hosted by..." Some person John had never heard of. "Who's Victor Trevor?"

"Old friend," Sherlock said, waving his hand impatiently as though that were not the port of importance. "Did you see what it says?"

John tried to ignore the strange twinge he felt about this unknown Victor Trevor person as he focused instead on the words on the invitation.

"Okay," he said slowly, reading the words on the invitation aloud as he tried to make sense of them. "It's in twelve days. At Palm Court at the Waldorf? Must be a _rich_ old friend," John said under his breath. "Black tie. And-" John's stomach flipped as he read the next line. "And you're to bring a date with you."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I'm supposed to bring a date! What does that mean?"

John took his time before answering. He needed to word his answer perfectly or else he could push Sherlock into the arms of an undeserving woman...or man... Suddenly, John felt very hot around the ears.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat and looking around the living room to buy time, avoiding looking at Sherlock who was staring intensely at him. "It means that you should bring someone with you who you want to spend the evening with. Someone who you get along with. It _could_ be someone who you want to pursue romantically, but it could also be a friend. A family member. A flatmate. Did you have anyone in mind?"

There. That was hopefully innocent enough that Sherlock would not suspect anything. Was there anything to suspect? No. Of course not. John was just looking out for his friend and flatmate. He had Sherlock's best interests at heart. That was all. He didn't want to be his date.

_I'm not his date_.

The words he had said in Angelo's that first night played out in his head and he nodded to reaffirm himself. He and Sherlock were just friends. That was all. If Sherlock could not find a date, John would graciously offer to accompany him. As friends.

"No," Sherlock said, looking suddenly pensive. "But you've given me a lot to think about. This will take some more thought. Probably some detailed charts and maps on the wall to figure out who to bring. I'll need to research the venue and what is generally considered to proper protocol in situations like this." He reached out his hand to take the invitation back from John who, for reasons he could not fathom, reluctantly handed it over.

"Are you going to RSVP?" John asked, keeping his voice light and even.

"I already have," Sherlock said, his fingertips dancing long the edge of the invitation as though in nervous agitation.

"What did you say?"

"I said I would be attending."

"With a date?"

"Yes, but who I bring remains to be seen."

And without another word, because his brain had already thrown itself into overdrive with this upcoming party, Sherlock clasped the invitation in his hand and strode into his bedroom, closing the door sharply behind him, leaving John standing awkwardly in the living room, wondering why he felt so lonely and confused.


	3. Fancy Holiday Party - Anne

_Anne is also doing a long story out of these prompts!_

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><p>December 25th. 3:00pm. Sherlock was in pain and the torture had barely begun.<p>

His family was gathered around the rather exorbitant television that his parents had recently had installed in the sitting room. His family. As in, his entire family, not just his parents and Mycroft. Well, his mother's family, of course. His grandparents and his aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins and their purebred dogs and their aged dark liquor and their insufferable pride.

Everyone's attention was on the Queen, who was decked in lilac for her yearly Christmas message, except for Sherlock, that is. If pressed, he knew he wouldn't be able to repeat even the general gist of what she was rambling on about. In fact, if he was being honest, he didn't entirely remember her name. Not like it mattered to him. It did, however, matter to his brother. Mycroft constantly reminded him that one had to make room for Queen and country, and while Sherlock didn't understand why (as there was hardly any need for such figures of authority when one was clever like Mycroft was, clever like he was), he occasionally mimicked the pretense of interest when national events demanded he do so.

It was because of this vague obligation that Sherlock unhappily wasted seven minutes and four seconds of his life watching the broadcast, tapping his foot impatiently the whole while. He knew that after the Queen's message, dinner would be served, and once dinner was served, dinner would soon be over, and once dinner was over, Christmas tea would quickly commence, and once Christmas tea had concluded, he would be able to creep back upstairs to his room and disappear for the remainder of the day.

Terrible holiday, Christmas. Too many people dashing to and fro, too many unwelcome displays of affection, too many rich dishes, too many sounds, too many smells, too much, too much, too much. He despised it. It was unbearable for someone like him. Someone sensitive. Someone observant. Someone _brilliant._

The last of Sherlock's patience finally disintegrated, and he briskly strode to the dining room just as the first bars of "God Save the Queen" began sounding in the sitting room, marking the end of this year's national pride nonsense. He dramatically reclined in a deep seat in the study (the one that Mycroft typically claimed) and indulgently took in a deep breath. He was really indulgently inhaling the temporary silence, the lull in the nightmare that was this absurdly fancy Christmas party. He could do this. He could finish out the day without making a scene of some sort, without literally tearing his hair out, without allowing the poor conversation to actually degrade his mental faculties. Right? He had done it before. He could do it again. Following that train of thought, he steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes to regain his composure. He was fine. He could stop the pounding if he wanted to, the insistent pounding in his head. God, why had he even bothered coming home? He could have made more of a fuss to stay at Cambridge.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

Pale eyes shot open, but Sherlock didn't turn to the direction of the voice. He didn't need to. He knew exactly who that was, although he wasn't sure exactly how this particular person had made his way into this particular section of Sherlock's life.

"John Watson."

"Yeah." John paused, and Sherlock causally turned to look at him.

John Watson was blushing just slightly, almost imperceptibly, his tan cheeks just barely tinged with the sweetest pink. Sherlock loved that color. Sherlock loved that John's skin had adopted it.

On second thought, maybe John wasn't blushing. Maybe that was just Sherlock's rather active imagination encroaching on his perfect objectivity. He had to be careful that that didn't happen. Christ, what would Mycroft say if he found out?

"You're here—I mean, I suppose I knew you would be here, but…" John blabbered when Sherlock said nothing. The thin voice quickly trailed off, and the other boy cleared his throat anxiously in a vain attempt to recover his bearings.

Sherlock found himself wondering how exactly John had planned to finish that sentence anyway. It didn't matter. The statement stayed suspended, and Sherlock's mind rumbled unhappily as he searched for an explanation. An explanation for John. An explanation for how John was even in the Holmes' estate on Christmas Day.

"And you're here. Much more surprising, I would say," he finally offered, hoping that his genuine interest was conveyed, even if it was of the pretentious, privileged sort.

"Oh, yeah… I'm working as a footman." Ah, yes. That would explain the costume, and why John was standing beside the drinks. Stupid, Sherlock… _Stupid_. Mycroft would have figured that out instantly. Sherlock, on the other hand, was too busy thinking about John's family to notice the obvious. Where were they? Why wasn't John there too?

"On Christmas?" he asked, calculating coldness cutting his previous overtures of kindness. John blushed again. Yes, this time Sherlock was sure he was blushing, although now he was clearly blushing for a different reason.

"Obviously." Sherlock's lips moved in the direction of a smile at that reply. After all, John Watson had stolen his line, and used it quite effectively at that. The young genius clearly wouldn't be allowed to delve into whatever familial mess John was unfortunate enough to be saddled with then, not without meeting some significant resistance on John's part.

Fine. Sherlock would deduce the truth on his own. Eventually. It was more fun that way anyway.

"Obviously," Sherlock repeated. The pounding was… gone. And John's unexpected presence had led him to cautiously resurrect a previously neglected hope that his holiday would be more interesting than he had foreseen. Fancy that…


End file.
